


Crash Course in Cooperation

by texastoasted



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Angst, F/M, M/M, Zombies, i am so sorry for making them suffer pls forgive me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-06-19 22:18:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15519840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/texastoasted/pseuds/texastoasted
Summary: Ten people don't have to have too much in common in a zombie apocalypse to want to stick together- but being fucked up is certainly one thing.A zombie au that is also a modern au.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick note that in this Demo has both of his eyes.

The tiny bell positioned above the shop door sounded awfully shrill as it announced his arrival to a empty store. Tavish’s eyes flicked to the dozing cashier at the front to the stocked shelves of plastic-wrapped treats with bright yellow price stickers. He dug around in his pocket for the grocery list, taking a cheerfully orange shopping basket from the stack near the door. It was supposed to be a scorcher today, and he’d rather like to get finished and home to air conditioning sooner rather than later. There were only a few things, really, the essentials, no excuse to be lingering around the liquor freezer as long as he did. However, frost clinging to the necks of what must be a brand-new cider was too tempting to resist. He didn’t stop to dwell on the fact that he was able to spot a new brand almost instantly, with knowing the labels the little shop in town carried like the back of his hand. 

Tavish mentally ticked off items on the list as he went, casting a glance at the clock adorned in seashells above the door. He still had an ounce of time before traffic might become an issue. His mother needed more English muffins, despite the fact that she couldn’t stop spitting insults about the British like cherry pits. The bread was in its own aisle at the back of the store, a little L-shaped thing that was tucked away like a vault of carbohydrate treasure. Tavish tutted to himself as he scanned the aisles for the muffins, finally stretching out a hand to crunch around the plastic. Gotcha. He placed them in the basket on top of the case of cider and turned to leave.

Tavish almost ran into a rather thin woman looming behind him like the grim reaper, nearly driving his basket into a stand of cutting boards.

“Ach, excuse me!” he told her apologetically, watching her wide set gaze meet his above trench-deep undereye circles. Tavish caught sight of a stroller in a nearby aisle, a silent tot holding a stuffed rabbit in his sticky fingers. In a rather eerie way, they both watched him take his leave, mother and son focused on him like midday entertainment. The Scotsman made his way to the checkout counter, heaving the basket upwards and waking the cashier with a start.

“How’s your day, mate?”

“Slow,” the cashier grumbled, a pimply lad somewhere in his teenage years that he couldn’t remember going to the college or not. Tavish closed his mouth and gave a short nod in affirmation, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket. He kept an eye on the clock.

“How’s traffic?”

“Fuck if I know, man, I’m working.”

The woman with the stroller was making her way up the aisles. Tavish could hear the squeaking of the stroller like she was rolling it back and forth over a dying rat.

“Chip?” The cashier questioned.

“Huh?”

“Chip. On your card.”

“Oh. Aye.”

Tavish fumbled with his wallet and stuck the piece of plastic into the reader. In another minute the paper bag of groceries was stuffed into his arms and he was on his way out of the tepid, stale air of the store and back out to his car, an old, beat up thing that had been his mother’s. Sweat immediately broke out on his forehead. He liked the summer, really, when he was off from teaching at the college. Not enough students took chemistry over the summer term for him to be employed, and while that was just fine with him, it never was with his mother. Nevermind his late dad had left her all the money she’d ever need to see her through the end of retirement.

He fished out his cellphone in the pocket of his jeans and checked traffic.

It was only 3 o’clock, but from what he’d been overhearing on his mother’s television programs the last few days, traffic was becoming an absolute menace. Tavish wasn’t exactly sure why, but all that mattered was avoiding it. He swore under his breath. The little red line arching over the freeway was already cranberry red. Traffic had never been such a pain in the ass in this town, it practically didn’t even exist until a month ago. They were on the coast, sandwiched between some bigger cities, and evidently a passing-through for the great migration in either direction.

Tavish blew a stream of air from between pursed lips, making his air freshener shaped like a mug of foaming ale dance in the breeze. Best to get on with it, then.

 

“Home, ma,” Tavish called, balancing the bag of groceries on his hip and stuffing his keys back into his pocket with the other. The wave of cool air was the only thing that greeted him when he entered, and Tavish’s eyebrows creased as he bustled to set his things down on the counter.

“Ma?”

“Over here, Tavish,” she said absently, stone-still in front of the sliding glass doors that went out to the backyard.

“Aren’t you missing your show? It’s after three-thirty.”

“Come here a minute, boy.”

“Hold on. I’ve got to put the things in the fridge.”

She was quiet until he finished up in the kitchen, brushing his hands on his pants, and came over to join her. Tavish peered out the glass. The gently sloping hill of grass waved to him in the breeze, long, arching shadows curving over his mother’s wheelbarrow.

“What, ma?”

His mother dug her elbow into his side. “I thought I was the blind one, Tavish. There’s someone in the yard. I heard one of my pots break. If it’s those youths again-”

“Ma, I really think they’ve gone, I don’t see anyone.” Tavish insisted. “I-”

It was a peculiar feeling that jumped in his chest when someone came out of the shadows by the sides of the house, one sneakered foot kicking the tire of the wheelbarrow hard enough to make Tavish wince. The young woman didn’t even limp, just sort of stood there looking up at the sun, the ends of her ponytail fluttering in the breeze.

“Told you.” his mother told him comfortably. “Call the nice policeman, Tavish. Make sure you tell them about my broken pot!”

“Ma, come on. She looks confused, is all.” He moved to open the door, and suddenly, his mother’s hand seized on his wrist with an iron grip.

“It could be a ruse, Tavish. I heard it’s how they’re doing things these days. One of them pretends to need help, and then they rush in and steal your heirloom swords.”

“Ma,” Tavish protested. “No youths are going to rush in and steal our swords. She could need real help.”

“Heirloom swords.” his mother reminded.

Tavish rolled his eyes and opened the sliding glass, stepping outside onto gravel, pulling it shut behind him. Didn’t want to take any chances, after all.

“Hey, lassie,” he called, taking slow steps towards her. “Everything okay?”

The girl didn’t answer him, but started to turn her body towards him, confusion painted heavy-handed on her features. It startled him. She must have been a teenager, and Tavish could have sworn he’d seen her somewhere before-perhaps she lived in that bunch of houses down on the beach.

“What?” she asked him, voice cracking. Her eyes flitted back and forth over him, cheeks a deathly pallor. Tavish took a few more tentative steps towards her. She looked okay, from the collarbones down, dressed normal and all. Her face was all wrong. She looked too old in her confusion, too young to be this sick.

“I can call someone for you.” he offered. “Are you hurt? Do you know where you are?”

A few tears welled up, spilling down her cheeks. When she turned her head towards the sun again, Tavish noticed the veins in her neck were standing out like elevator cables.

“I’m going to call someone, lassie. You don’t look too well.”

Tavish retreated back to the house. He debated offering her a place inside the house, but a welling of guilt inside his chest stopped him. There was an elderly woman with a questionable immune system inside, and whatever this girl had, Tavish wasn’t sure if he wanted to risk his mother catching it.

“I’ll be back.” he promised, and was nearly jumped by his mother when he came back inside.

“Well?” she demanded.

“She’s real sick looking, ma.” Tavish chastised. “A thief! Poor thing is just confused. I’m calling the hospital.”

His mother harrumphed and found her own way back to the couch. Tavish picked up his cell phone where he’d left it on the counter and dialed the number for the local hospital in town. As it rang, pronouncing his ignorance like the tolling of a bell, he moved to the sliding glass door to keep an eye on the girl.

“White Whale Hospital,” someone answered wearily, and with a mounting degree of panic, noticed the wheelbarrow was teetering against her legs, she seemed right intent on walking as though there wasn’t an obstacle there.

“Hello,” he started a bit urgently, moving the curtains. “I’ve got a lass here who looks quite ill. In my backyard and all.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. We are very busy at this time and most of our ambulances have been dispatched. I can only send someone out if it’s an emergency.”

“She looks about to drop. I-”

A bang from outside, the wheelbarrow toppled, an arm bent in a way that it shouldn’t have been. The girl picked herself up from behind it, dirt embedded in her face, staring in a rather unconcerned way at the bend in her arm. Tavish’s breath caught in his throat as they made eye contact and she made some sort of attempt to move, her ankles going from beneath her. Even from the kitchen it was almost like he could see her blood through her skin, she had gone so pale, and it looked almost black-

“Sir?”

“It’s an emergency, you got it!” Tavish shouted, backing away from the door. His mother turned away from her television program idly.

“Symptoms?”

Tavish stuttered helplessly until a short sigh came from the other end. “Black veins, very pale, mood swings, confusion, aggression, cannibalism, biting, growling, howling?”

“Most of that, yeah! You’ve seen this before?”

“Sir, I wish this was new to me. I’m sorry you are dealing with this. However, if they’re outside and you’re inside and you can keep it that way, you’ll be fine until we get more personnel. If the problem gets worse, just, you know. Take care of it.”

“I’m many things, but short of a medical degree!” 

“Sir, I mean take care of it. Take off the head. Then burn-”

“You’ve got to be out of your bloody mind. Hospital can’t get to her in time, you want me to perform a mercy killing?” The desperation in his voice was almost shrill.

“If the virus has progressed to these symptoms, sir, we will do the same thing.”

There was a click on the other end of the line, and Tavish cradled his phone in the palm of his hand like one of his bombs, staring at it in disbelief.

“What’s this about killing?” his mother called a little excitedly from the couch.

“Hospital’s not coming for a while, ma.” Tavish forced a slow breath. “Too backed up. Say there’s not much they can do for her anyways.”

Tavish went to the door and fumbled with the lock. The girl was on her back next to the fallen wheelbarrow, turning her face upwards to the sun, like a dying flower trying reach its warmth.


	2. Chapter 2

Tavish made an effort not to be checking the window at every beat of his heart.

At some point, the girl had wandered away. He had even gone outside and checked, fearing that she was stuck in the pumpkin vines or on the fence, but it seemed she had gone back out through the gate. Tavish made sure it was locked this time, rattling and tugging the latch a few times in his fist for emphasis. He had the idea to call around to their few neighbors to watch out for her, but not very many answered, and the few that did sounded quite distant and distracted. When Tavish finally put down the phone for the afternoon his mother was perched tight-lipped on the couch, fingers laced tightly over her cane like she feared it would fly away.

“Tavish, come over here,” she called to him.

So they sat there, watching and listening to the solemn news, color from the screen painting the weary lines forming on their faces and casting long shadows. A virus, they said, an epidemic, some strain of a foreign disease that had mutated and they didn’t know how to vaccine for or cure. It turned blood dark, almost black, and made the skin pale and translucent. Mood swings. Mood swings including extreme confusion or delirium and aggression. A person would be very ill before the point of no return, practical brain death, from which they started acting irrationally, known to bite-

“What,” Tavish asked, with a little laugh that was swollen with disbelief, “like zombies?”

“The dead are not coming out of the ground yet, are they?” his mother reprimanded, but her tone lacked the usual authority behind it. The man on the television advised staying inside at all costs, and reinforcing doors and windows. Quarantine and do not interact with the infected or others you suspect might be infected. The police and local hospitals are here to help. Just be patient. Be patient. The words rung in Tavish’s ears. How long were they supposed to be patient? Be patient. Be patient. When his mother and father had bought this little coastal house on the cliff, there was a basement that was mostly used as an alcohol cellar and for storage. Every shadow felt twice as tall when he flicked the switch to activate the little row of lightbulbs. It had always reminded him of a Scottish pub down there, but now it felt cold and unforgiving, with the fingers of darkness creeping around the corners of his eyes at every opportunity. Tavish finished his business in the basement as fast as possible, hauling up old furniture and transferring liquor onto already stocked shelves to free up space. His mother was waiting upstairs to help push things into doorways and windows, blocking and barricading wherever they could. 

Tavish sank down in front of the empty dresser they’d pushed in front of the door, mopping some sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm. It almost seemed a little silly, their frenzied effort-silence settling down upon them like a first snowfall. It was better to be safe than sorry. They would be secure in here for a long time, as long as they needed. They would be just fine.

“Tavish, fetch the recycling.”

“Ma?” he asked, getting to his feet.

“Empty bottles. Put them in the dresser drawers, boy. They’ll clink around if the door is moving around any.”

“Okay,” he responded, “Good idea.”

Tavish pulled the little blue bin out from under the sink, squatting as he sorted cardboard from glass. It was so oddly dark in the kitchen, the big window over the sink covered by a big piece of wood that had once been the backing of a bookcase. He was lucky to have his mother. She was as sharp as a tack. If he could be stuck in this situation with anyone and not think about drowning himself in some of the scotch that was currently maturing downstairs-

“Someone’s here,” his mother said suddenly, jabbing her cane like a prosecutor’s accusing finger at the door. Tavish’s hands stilled. There was indeed the sound of gravel pinging off the underside of a vehicle as it rolled into their driveway, albeit somewhat muted from all the barricading, but distinct all the same. “The hospital.” Tavish answered, surprise staining his voice. “That was fast.”

The Scotsman moved to the door, where they had left a sliver of windowpane untouched to see through, too thin for any extremity to push through. He pressed his eye to it and felt sour disappointment. It was a box-shaped truck, the image of two crossed screwdrivers painted on the side.

“Nathan’s Fixit on-the-go,” Tavish read. His eyebrows scrunched together. “What bloody reason does he have for coming here?”

“Oh, Nathan’s,” his mother exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Tavish, you remember. I scheduled this a week ago, for the bathroom in the cellar.”

“Ma-”

“Oh, don’t start, boy! The poor man’s been driving for ages. He wouldn’t still be coming if something was wrong. If he was sick, or traffic was too bad, he would have turned around. It’s a good sign! Life is resuming out there. There’s no excuse to pass up on the day we were getting our plumbing fixed because you’re being childish. Let the man in.”

“Childish!? Ma, I-”

“I said let the bloody man in, Tavish.”

After a moment of staring at her tight-lipped, he moved the dresser away from the door. The repairman introduced himself Jon and stuck his hand out to shake. “I really appreciate you letting me in, sir. I understand with the times we’re in, people can be a little jumpy.”

Tavish held his hand for a moment, gazing at the sheen of sweat on his jowls, the way his eyes flitted back and forth over the outlines of furniture. “No problem!” his mother piped up from behind them, ushering him inwards. “Please. I’ll show you the issue.”

Tavish watched Jon make his way downstairs, pulling at his collar. “Crazy drivers out there,” he choked out, and his mother summoned more information about the plumbing, chattering away until the noise of the two of the faded deep into the basement. He was on edge until his mother made her way back upstairs. 

“See?” she told him triumphantly, leaning heavily on her cane from the exertion. “You can’t halt the world for a silly epidemic. Plumbing will be just as broken.”

 

Tavish normally played some music while he did the dishes to pass the time, but for a reason he couldn’t explain, every song he flipped through sickened him. His stomach rolled when the cheerful rock mixed with the somber announcer droning away on the television, often repeating himself. There was just the clinking of his mother’s knitting needles as she worked away on a pair of new pot holders and the sloshing of soapy water. He was going a little rough with the scrubbing pad on a cast iron skillet, eyes somewhere far in the field of view the kitchen window offered. They were locked up just fine, Tavish told himself. Fine thing they were sociable people who liked to have friends over quite often, as the kitchen, pantry, and basement were fully stocked with food and water. They never had much trouble in their little house up on the cliff overlooking the sea. They were going to be just fine until this whole thing blew over like a tumbleweed. Just fine.

A rigid claw clamped onto his shoulder like something captured in the maw of a snake, attaching itself for a poisonous eternity, and Tavish jumped five feet. The skillet he was scrubbing fell onto the counter with a indignant clank. His heart in his throat, Tavish wheeled around. It was only Jon, pale as the crown moulding, thick rivulets of sweat running down his face. His eyes seemed to stand out far back in their sockets, and they latched onto Tavish rather desperately. With some effort, he released his grasp. “Sorry,” he said a little hoarsely, “Don’t think you heard me coming up. May I have a glass of water? Awful hot down there.”

Tavish greatly doubted it. It was the coldest part of the house even without running the air conditioner. He had a nasty feeling in his stomach that maybe Jon was sick like the girl in the backyard, too, and the deadpan lines from the man on the television were rattling around in his brain. Tavish had a sudden urge that he very much wanted the repairman to stop perspiring in his kitchen. “You don’t look so good, mate. Maybe you should go home. Come back when you’re feeling better.”

Jon swallowed, hard, and some sweat dripped off his fingers onto the floor. “Well, I-” he said uncomfortably.

“It’s really fine. We aren’t in any rush, right, ma?”

“What?” His mother shouted from the couch.

“Right. I’ll...I’ll even pay you for the job, considered done.”

“That’s very generous of you. Maybe that is a good idea. They can send someone else as soon as possible. Let me just get my tools.”

The small of Tavish’s back was pressed firmly against the counter as he watched Jon painfully proceed to the staircase, concentrating very intently on not spilling the glass of water that he had apparently forgotten about. As soon as he was out of the line of vision, Tavish stuffed his hand in his back pocket to dig out his wallet and hurriedly received the agreed-upon cash. He was just pulling his money clip out, wad of green clutched in his hands like it was his payment to salvation, and there was a small crash from downstairs as the glass of water fell to the floor and shattered.


	3. Chapter 3

“Don’t just stand there, Tavish,” his mother barked, jabbing her cane in his direction. “Go help the man.”

Tavish could hear his heartbeat as loud as if it was exposed to the open air. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, and he opened his suddenly quite dry mouth.

“Ma,” he started, uncomfortably. His fingers clenched around the wad of cash in his hands. “I-”

“You are sure getting on me nerves, boy. Go!”

Tavish’s eyes flitted around the room desperately, and he abruptly seized a forked poker that was leaning against the fireplace, stuffing the wad of cash into his pocket. He would rather have grabbed a sword, but he could almost hear the indignation that would hiss out of his mother like a snake if she heard the sound of metal unsheathing. Better the poker if he wanted to keep his hide. With a belly full of swelling apprehension, Tavish made his way down one stair at a time, gaze fixed on the shattered glass glittering in the water. 

“You alright, mate?” he called to the basement, tone wobbling. 

“Sorry about that,” came hoarsely from the bathroom. “Thought I cut myself on the glass, but I guess not too bad.”

What shuffled out of the bathroom was not what he had seen at the front door, and it was incredible to Tavish that whatever he was afflicted with had progressed this quickly. The man was ghostly pale, holding out his hand that had a obviously deep gash in it and was decidedly not bleeding. Instead, a thick black tarry substance was seeping out like molasses. They met eyes, the repairman’s gaze sunken and cloudy, and then in one motion he raised his palm up to his mouth and licked it.

“Just a scratch,” he said.

“I’ll be right back,” Tavish told him with a tight, mustered smile, clutching the poker, and backpedaled rapidly up the stairs. He dropped it next to the fireplace, the metal clattering on stone, and his mother idly turned her head in his direction as he practically skidded across the kitchen tile. 

“Don’t go down there, ma.”

God, were the buttons on the phone always this tiny? It seemed to take an eternity to ring, and Tavish clutched the receiver, as if willing it with his grip to go faster. He happened to be standing in a spot that made it evident they had left part of the kitchen window uncovered, and in the front yard was the repairman’s van, and it was rocking. Tavish’s eyes seemed to strain out of his skull. It was definitely rocking. How fucking long had this thing been ringing? Weren’t emergency services supposed to answer quickly, because people were calling about goddamn emergencies?  
There was a sound that he had never heard before, a bone-chilling caterwaul of pain and horrible fear, and he knew by instinct who had made that sound, although it was so terrible to believe he wanted to deafen himself. Tavish dropped the phone, turning himself so hard it was a wonder he didn’t topple over. The repairman had made it up the stairs, which Tavish almost wanted to congratulate him for it in his current condition. His maw was closing around his mother’s arm, which was still grasping its cane for dear life, its owner unable to see what was assaulting her. Her face was twisted in an expression of pain and fear so agonizing that Tavish would have given anything to never have seen it. Later, perhaps, they might have laughed how he lowered his shoulder and charged like an American footballer at the repairman-it was a technique right off the medieval family tree, something which Tavish had never been able to replicate. There was a sickening crack as they collided, and Tavish did not stop to wonder if it was his collarbone that snapped, it only mattered that the repairman went sailing back down the stairs. There was a series of sickening, wet thumps as what must be his head collided with the steps.

“Mom,” he croaked, hands shaking as he moved them helplessly back and forth over her arm, which was steadily bleeding. 

“I’m alright,” she said, though it did not sound very convincing. “Just get me a tea towel, will you?”

She did not speak very much as he attended to the wound, wheedling her to come to the sink so he could try to clean it out properly. There was a weakness, a faltering, in her movements, which he hoped was simply residual fear. She did not protest to being sat down on the couch.

“Stay there, ma. I’m going to...we’re going to the hospital, all right?”

“It’s just a little bite,” she protested. “Tavish, you’re being ridiculous.”

“I don’t care!” he found himself shouting, and then made an effort to lower his voice. “We’re going.”

He hesitated before the stairs. There was no way the poor bloke could still be alive. Something twisted in his gut, and he made himself peek over the edge. He couldn’t just leave-

Tavish did not expect in any way, shape, or form to have his nervous gaze met by a sunken, thoroughly angried one, like his conscience had taken a physical form. The gaze looked every bit as accusing as the judge Tavish imagined he would be sentenced under. It was self defense. Surely, they must believe him. He just had to go down there, and help him up. He just had to go down there. His thoughts were curiously silent as he made the decision to close the door at the top of the stairs, and pushed the smaller of the two couches in front of it.

“Come on, ma, we’re going.” he told her firmly, gently helping her up. He wondered if it would be better, faster, to carry her, but knew that as long as she had her strength she would protest loudly about it. Somehow before the next century, they made it outside, and Tavish let out an exhale that seemed to shed ten pounds off his shoulders when he finally got her in the passenger seat of his car. It had taken long enough to pry all the defenses off the doors. God, they were so fucking stupid to think they were safe inside their little fortress. He did not dare to think of what could be happening to his mother, and he resisted slamming the door. He must keep calm, for her. He must keep calm. Tavish had been able to ignore the frenzied rocking in the van as they made their way across the front lawn, but now, it commanded his attention. Distressed, he ran a hand through his hair. No, he couldn’t just leave it. If they ever returned-when they returned, it would surely be a bigger pain in his ass, and if whatever was inside escaped and bit one of the neighbors, he’d never be able to sleep. No. He had to take care of it, now. Feeling every bit as ridiculous as he most have looked, Tavish pried one of the ancient family swords(the one that looked the sharpest) off the wall, and made his way back outside. He cast a glance inside the idling car, where his mother was fiddling with the radio. 

Do it, DeGroot, he told himself firmly, and opened the back door to the van.

For a moment, Tavish felt like he must be the only one in the world reacting this way, and he was downright insane for pushing a man down the stairs to his death and running around wiedling an ancient sword. The look of fear on the child’s face in front of him was so acute that Tavish knew there must be something wrong with him. But it twisted in an instant, and the boy launched at him, black veins as thick as elevator cables standing out in his neck. He knew, he knew, the little boy must be sick in the same way as who was probably his dad in the house. He knew it, but it didn’t stop from a tidal wave of vomit surging up his throat and spilling over onto the grass when he instinctively raised the sword to protect himself, slicing through the meat of the child’s shoulder and neck.

Tavish remained hunched over for what seemed like an eternity, dry-heaving, miserably turned away from the sword stained with sticky black blood. His head was swimming, and the only thing that kept him from passing out was the memory of his poor mother in the car, blissfully oblivious to what had just occurred outside, probably singing along to one of the CD’s he kept in the glovebox. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the body of the child, but uttered a devastated apology. He swore to himself that when they got back from the hospital, he would give him a proper burial if there was no family of the boy’s to bury him. Tavish made himself check the van, holding an arm over his nose to muffle the smell. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for-someone to call and come pick up their deceased, maybe-but didn’t find anything of interest except a cell phone in a cup holder. It had no passcode, and was left open on a page of notes, which appeared to be painstakingly detailed in order to self-guide a man who must have known he would soon lose his mind. Tavish could barely bear to read through the directions to make it through one last job, and use the cash to take his son to the doctor. 

God above, he was going to be sick again.

Thoroughly nauseated, Tavish hurried to the car, hesitating only for a moment before placing the sword in the back seat. His mother didn’t say anything as he got into the driver’s seat, idly bobbing her head to the sound of bleating bagpipes.

“How are you, ma?”

“Just fine, Tavish,” she answered, a little more quietly than he would’ve liked. “What about you, boy?”

He did not answer until they were out of the driveway and on their way down the hill. His mother never asked how he was. She was incredibly adept at assessing his state at any given moment through his tone, word choice, probably his goddamned smell. 

“Holding on, ma.”

She patted his leg wordlessly. It would forever hold in his memory as the last time his mother touched him, and Tavish would remember it with regret heavy in his throat, wishing he had taken a hand off the wheel to hold her hand.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY.

The poor nurses that were hurrying around the packed-to-the-gills emergency room looked exhausted. Tavish felt horrible for snagging the arm of one of them as she went by, strands of hair standing out from behind her ears, and she looked at him, unseeing.

“I’m so sorry,” he said urgently, “But my mother needs help.”

“You’re going to have to wait like everyone else, sir. I’m very sorry.”

She made a move to leave, not even glancing in his mother’s direction. His poor mother, who had sunk into a vacant chair, suddenly frail and looking ten years older. Tavish cast a glance back at her. A little girl was pushing a toy truck around people’s feet on the floor, and his mother offered a faint smile in her direction, kindly moving her shoes out of the way.

“Please,” he insisted, reaching out for the nurse’s shoulder. He lowered his voice. “She has a bite. It’s really bad. She’s lost a lot of blood.”

“A bite?” The nurse asked, suddenly all of her attention on him, and he could not pick out the expression on her face. “From one of them?”

“Yes,” he could only say, helplessly.

“How long ago?” 

“Traffic was right horrible getting here. We only live up the hill. Maybe a half hour?”

The nurse looked at him, and Tavish looked back. She took his hands in hers. They were a little clammy. “I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long for her to be seen. We will take care of it, I promise. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

The nurse turned around and spotted one of her compatriots, who was bending over an old man leaning heavily on a cane. “Janet,” she called, in a carefully neutral tone, “Can we get this lovely lady a wheelchair?”

Tavish could not fathom why it took him so long to get back to his mother. The nurse was almost blocking him with her body, asking him these mundane questions like his mother’s name, and all he wanted was to touch his mother’s hand as she was wheeled away. “What is wrong with you?” he asked, angrily, when the doors closed behind her. “Let me go!”

“Of course,” the nurse said, and left.  
He sat for a few minutes with his head in his hands, miserably watching the little girl move her truck back and forth through his fingers. It was utterly chaotic in the hospital waiting room, things going on that he didn’t entirely want to see. Finally he could bear it no longer and made his way to the line to the front desk.

“My mother,” he said, when he finally got to the desk. “Can you please tell me what room she’s in? Or if she’s still in treatment?”

“Her name?”

He gave it.

 

The nurse looked up at him, a little incredulous expression skittering across her face like a mouse for a millisecond. But he saw it, and his face hardened. “Look, I don’t know what treatment she’s been taken for, no one’s told me anything. How long it takes. Can you please tell me something, anything?”

“I’m sorry,..?”

“Tavish.”

“I’m sorry, Tavish. I didn’t mean to make you upset. I thought you were aware of the proceedings people are being brought here for. That are bitten or infected.”

“I’m not aware,” he answered, a little loudly, and a few people turned to look at him.

“Tavish,” she went, casting a glance to the side, “I’m really sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but there isn’t a cure. The only thing we can do is take care of it for you. That’s what the sign says, outside. The waiver you signed?”

“I didn’t sign any bloody waiver!” Tavish shouted. “What sign?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. We must be out of the waivers. It explains it a bit better. You know what, I’ll page someone, and see if they can talk to you instead. I’m really sorry about that.”

Tavish could hear his breath hissing through his teeth. People were looking at him, this fucking idiot, oh God, what had he done to his mother? What were they doing here? The next couple minutes were a blur, where someone came and got him, a very tired-looking doctor. Tavish could only focus on a minute spot of mustard on the lapel of his white coat the whole time he was being talked to, being dealt a gentle explanation that there was no cure for this sickness, it was becoming a nationwide and already international pandemic, that they had to take care of it before it metastasized. Like the nurse had said, there was information they were trying to circulate about what they were doing here, and trying to have enough waivers that really did explain it better-

“Please tell me where my mother is,” he cried, then, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. Tavish had to take in a breath that felt as sharp as a knife, and bent over to brace himself on his knees, the doctor’s hand landing gently on his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. DeGroot, she was likely euthanized already.”

His voice cracked as he tried to speak, tried to breathe, tried to force something out of his vocal chords other than the horrible wail that permeated the hospital corridor. 

“There was nothing more that could be done to stop the spread of infection. If you hadn’t brought her here, it would have riddled her body and turned her into one of the...one of the…I think you know, the thing that bit her. There is no treatment, there is no cure.” The doctor told him urgently, gripping his shoulder like a vice, almost shaking him. “Mr. DeGroot. We have to cremate the body. Would you like the ashes?”

“Yes,” Tavish managed.

He did not remember the doctor telling him that he needed to leave, to get in his car and go home and come back tomorrow, but he must have, because Tavish surely would not have made it that far of his own volition. Somehow, somehow, he was sitting in his driveway, his hands upon the steering wheel, no memory of even starting the car to get home. He felt like he was floating as he got out of the car and looked passively at the van on the front lawn, the back doors wide open, the body of the child half obscured behind the back tire. Tavish’s only thought was on the location of his keys, and then it rather felt like coming home from a day of work, exhausted and craving a cold beer. He sat in his favorite chair with the beer resting on his knee for what seemed like an eternity, eyes out of focus, until a noise from downstairs got him up. He should probably take care of that. Whatever remorse he had held in his bones was gone. Tavish took care in choosing another sword on the wall, one that looked particularly nasty, and swung it around a few times for practice. It was easier, now, to go downstairs, to not fathom how the repairman was still alive after being pushed down the stairs but to finish the job and leave.

Tavish sank back into the armchair. He would remain there for many days.


End file.
